TMNT: Chat
by princessebee
Summary: 2k7verse. Leonardo is gone on his training mission, Master Splinter is gravely ill and Raphael has checked out. Donatello is barely keeping things together, he's finally got a moment to himself and now Michelangelo wants a late night chat. Can the two brothers bring each other some comfort? Fits in with my other 2k7 stories.


_This fic is dedicated to winnychan, who has always encouraged me to write more Donatello._

* * *

The low hum of the computer was the only sound in the tiny lab, its dimmed screen casting the desk, the keyboard, the nearby tower in a pale blue glow, eerie in the darkness.

Donatello sighed and knuckled an eye as he padded back into the little nook that served as his office, a thermos of steaming coffee clutched in his other hand. The lair beyond was pitch black save for the digital display on the microwave, a distant green spot.

Donatello kicked out his desk chair and collapsed into it, taking a slurp from the thermos. A quick nudge of the mouse and the fractal screensaver that displayed in vibrant colour flicked off to reveal his employer's intranet system, a long list of closed tickets scrolling down the screen. His aching muscles slowly uncoiled as he logged out, his shoulders curving forward, neck drooping. He took another sip of coffee, then placed the thermos on his desk.

The pointer moved across the screen to the address bar and the rattle of the keys seemed uncomfortably loud in the late night silence. The url completed before he even finished typing, and he punched the enter key.

Chatzy loaded on the screen, its banner promising "fun chat for adults… and more." Donatello clicked on the "chatrooms" button, and then scrolled the options down to "sex chat". Clicking on it revealed a list of nested rooms. The one he wanted was right at the top: "Anything Goes."

Donatello tugged his mask backwards over his head as he clicked onto the chatroom. A warning box flashed up onto the screen:

 _This chatroom is strictly for open-minded adults who are comfortable with the most explicit and boundary-pushing fetishes and taboos and is not advised for the weak of heart or faint of nature. By clicking enter below you confirm that you are eighteen years of age or older and are not offended by the graphic nature of the sexually explicit conduct that is simulated within this chatroom. If there is any misunderstanding about the contents of or related to this page, leave now._

Donatello did not pause to read the warning, just took another sip of his coffee and hit enter.

A little smile crooked the corners of his mouth when he saw the one other name in the userlist. At once, he sat up a little straighter, a tiny rush of pleasurable anticipation lightening his heart.

 **duzmachines:** _and what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this at three am on a Tuesday?_  
 **Cott0n** **Candee** **~:** _well, here's trouble_ (^_-)  
 **duzmachines:** _I've had a hard day._  
 **Cott0n** **Candee** **~:** _say no more._ (*^▽^*) _u know u can do whatever u want 2 me_ ( ˘ ³˘)

Donatello was smiling a little wider now, his bleary eyes lidded against the soft glare from the screen. He licked his lips and his hands hovered over the keyboard, ready to respond.

"Hey D?"

"Shit! Mikey!" Donatello jumped then hastily clicked the browser tab shut, his heartbeat hammering against his sternum. He knew he'd been busted, that the slightly frantic shifting of his thermos, the shuffle of his pens on the desk only confirmed his guilt, but he was helpless to the impulses. He was exhausted, and sad, and caught totally off guard. And he lived with a family of fucking ninjas.

Donatello took in a deep, steadying breath, then turned to the doorway. "What do you want?"

Michelangelo stood in the shadows. There was just the hint of a smile quirking the side of his mouth, dimly illuminated by the scant light of the monitor. No smirk, no mischief sparkling in his eyes. Donatello was braced against the ribbing he was sure to come, but when Michelangelo spoke, his voice was quiet.

"I just - uh - I - can I come in?"

Donatello blinked at his brother, who gazed back at him with rounded eyes. Michelangelo's hesitation unnerved him. Donatello sighed and his shoulders started to hunch up again, the familiar band of tension twanging between them. He spun his desk chair all the way around and shrugged.

"Sure. Why not?"

And Michelangelo did smirk then as he shifted into the office, sliding up onto a rare cleared space on the desk under the bookshelf.

"Well, you _did_ look like you might've had your hands full - "

Donatello rolled his eyes and turned back to the wall of monitors, fingers flying over the keyboard. "You have thirty seconds to convince me to participate in a conversation, Mikey. I suggest you get started."

YouTube loaded on the screen and Donatello surfed to his playlists. He selected an electroclash mix and turned the volume down low, the electronic beats and glitches softly ebbing through the still air. Michelangelo wrinkled his snout.

"Dude, this crap sounds like a whale trying to poop out a barnacle-encrusted tug boat. Haven't you ever heard of the Pussycat Dolls?"

Donatello pressed his eyes shut for a moment and inhaled. "Not a good start, Mikey. Twenty seconds."

"Okay, okay. Sheesh." Michelangelo swung his legs, fidgeted. "How's sensei?"

Donatello paused. His gut rolled and his tired eyes were suddenly burning. He rubbed them fitfully. "He's stable." His voice was quiet. Not quite as detached as he had hoped.

He'd checked on their father while his coffee was brewing. Splinter lay in his bed, prone and unconscious, silent but for the faint wheeze of breath. Donatello had set about the tasks of changing the saline drip, taking his blood pressure and checking his pulse, trying not to notice how thin and frail the old rat's wrist had felt, how bristled his coat, how the fur below his eyes was red and wet as though he were bleeding. He had changed the catheter bag and the bed sheet with a studied impersonal manner, and adjusted the drip of antibiotics. Those goddamned antibiotics. He'd spent hours upon hours on them. He'd taken time off work and now they owed April money. Splinter's blended DNA had made him reluctant to just stick him on average human medication. Or the type usually used on rats. He'd made infinitesimal adjustments, fearfully testing them with clammy palms and a jackhammer heart. The drugs weren't killing their sensei. Not yet, anyway.

But they didn't seem to be doing much good either.

He had drawn the sheets up high around his father's neck and tucked him tightly in, murmuring platitudes all the while: " _there you go, sensei, I'm sure you'll be more comfortable now. You're doing so well, I'm very pleased with your progress. I'll be back in an hour to check on you again. You just rest now."_

Splinter, of course, had given no indication that he had heard, much less understood anything that Donatello had said. But it felt better to say it than treat the one who had raised him like nothing more than a bag of bones and fur, kept barely alive by a hodge-podge of recycled equipment and the dogged pulse of hope.

Afterwards, in the dark silence of the kitchen, he had stood at the sink and let the tears run in quick rivers down his face, the hitch of his breath unforgivably loud against the low hum of the refrigerator.

Michelangelo was silent, staring down at his toes which he bent and flexed and bent again. "Is that good or bad?" he asked Donatello.

"It's - it is what it is, Mikey." Donatello pinched the bridge between his eyes and rolled his shoulders back, wincing to hear the crackle of his bones. "It could definitely be a lot worse. But it's still a matter of wait and see."

He couldn't seem to stop the dejected weariness that had crept into his voice.

Michelangelo didn't reply straight away but nor did he make any move to go. Donatello turned back to his computer and made his way to The Outpost. Maybe he could debate the likelihood the thylacine continued to thrive in the Tasmanian wilderness with thyla-surviva some more. That guy was such a crackpot.

Michelangelo would talk when he was ready.

Before he could even commence typing his scathing reply to thyla-surviva's assertion that new photographs of an obviously malnourished juvenile dingo slinking through the bush were incontrovertible evidence of the thylacine's survival, Michelangelo cleared his throat.

"So. About Raphael."

Immediately, Donatello's neck and shoulders seized and a cold sliver of anxiety spiked through his gut. He shut his eyes and waited, fists clenched on the keyboards fixed to the armrests on either side of his chair.

"He's been seeing that girl, you know. The one who stayed with us?"

"Yes, Mikey," Donatello was aware how resigned he sounded, how helpless. "I know."

"So. How do you feel about it?"

Donatello spun his chair around to face his brother. Michelangelo was still perched on the desk, hunched over with his arms on his thighs, his baby-face all wide, blue eyes and the undisguised crease of anxiety across his brow.

"To be frank with you, Mikey, I've been a little too busy around here to sort out how I feel about Raphael's relationship choices," he replied in a clipped tone. "Or the way he chooses to spend his time," he added.

Michelangelo cocked a brow ridge. For a moment he just stared at Donatello, an incredulous twist to his mouth. "You really haven't given even one moment of thought to the fact that one of us is getting laid regularly?"

For a moment, Donatello wanted to pettily reply: _I get laid too!_ But he knew it wouldn't count. Not to Mikey.

Not to himself either, if he was really honest.

"I'm not in the habit of giving much thought to my brothers having sex," he muttered, grasping the joystick on his right and tapping a key that switched another monitor on. Absently, he analysed the digital chessboard that displayed, contemplating his next move.

"Aw, come on." It's as though his reticence had only served to embolden Michelangelo, who started swinging his legs playfully, his eyes twinkling softly in the dim light. "You aren't even a little bit curious? You haven't thought even once about asking him what it's like?"

Donatello stared at the chessboard. The dark room quietly echoed with the discordant synths, the low pulsing beats seeming to tap on his skin. The last time he and Raphael had spoken it had ended with him pinned up against the wall, his brother's forearm crushing his throat, the echo of his own vicious words in his ears: _You're a deadbeat, Raph. A failure_. The chessboard blurred, the pieces running into each other. His eyes stung and he rubbed them fitfully. "No," he replied.

Michelangelo hesitated only a second before plowing on, forced cheeriness steeling his voice. "Well, I have. Dude, I'm busting to know!"

"So why don't you just go and ask him then?" Donatello snapped. He punched a key and the music abruptly stopped.

Michelangelo gazed back at him from eyes that were suddenly solemn and sore. "I don't know how to talk to Raph anymore," he said quietly and Donatello's heart broke.

He looked back up at the chessboard, his eyes flickering over the pieces. He didn't have a single damned clue where to move. "Me either," he replied.

The silence stretched between them. For a moment it seemed like they didn't know how to talk to each other anymore either and Donatello felt terrifyingly alone.

Then Michelangelo wiggled and scratched his neck. "D'you think he's paying her?" he blurted.

Donatello smiled wryly and clicked out of his chess game. "With what? And no. Raphael…" he almost wanted to laugh. "... could never conscience doing that."

Michelangelo's brow wrinkled. "What, like a macho thing?"

"Hm. Not entirely. Though I'm sure that's part of it. I just think he'd find the whole thing - distasteful."

Michelangelo grinned lopsidedly. "Don'tcha think that'd be more Leo's hangup?"

Donatello shrugged, ignoring the pang that struck his heart to hear his absent brother's name. "In some ways, those two are more alike than they care to admit."

"You ain't wrong," Michelangelo chuffed. He paused again, tapping his fingers together. "So - what - she just - she just wants to?"

Donatello looked at his brother and saw the hope that nestled, gleaming, in the depths of his eyes, dark and earnest in the room lit only by the stark glow of a computer monitor.

"I guess so," he replied flatly.

Michelangelo scratched his snout and swung his legs some more. "What do you figure she sees in Raph?"

His burst of laughter was sharp and bitter. "Believe me, Mikey: I have _no_ idea." He swung his chair around to grasp his thermos and took a swig. It went down hard around the knot of resentment that suddenly constricted his throat.

"No, really, D," Mikey persisted, like he hadn't flinched when Donatello had scoffed. "Raph's sunny personality aside - remember how bad she freaked out when he brought her here?"

Donatello's lip twisted wryly when he recalled the pale, thin junkie with sunken eyes and chapped lips in a face ravaged by the sun, trembling and staring at him like he was - well, a freak. "How could I forget?" he replied dryly. By the time she had left, she was fine, of course. Could look him in the eye. Talk to him - all of them - like they were people, without flinching or twitching. But that was the thing about a first impression. They counted.

Michelangelo seemed oblivious to his sarcasm. "But like - it's cool, isn't it? It doesn't matter to her anymore."

Donatello sniffed. "She's probably too high to care," he said before he could stop himself. It was a savage thing to say, pissing all over Michelangelo's eternal flame of hope. Uncharitable to the girl - and short-shrifting Raphael as well. In all sorts of ways. And even as he prickled with resentment for his sullen and absent brother, he knew he deserved more credit than that.

"Oh come on, bro," Michelangelo rebuked him. "Raph would never -" he petered off, his lips still parted. Then he glanced down at the stone floor, his gaze abruptly stricken.

Donatello sighed. "I know," he said, and he sounded suitably contrite. "I'm just - I'm just tired."

Michelangelo nodded, his hands balled into little fists on his knees. Donatello's shoulders drooped, the low throbbing ache that seemed to have fused into the fibres of his neck leaving his head feeling too heavy to support. He wondered how much longer Candy would be online. If she was still online.

"What do you think Raph sees in _her_?" Michelangelo piped up, looking over at Donatello again, brow ridges cocked quizzically. "I mean - don't get me wrong, I thought she was cool - but I mean - she's not exactly - especially for Raph - you know?"

Donatello had turned away and was looking at another monitor, clacking away at a different keyboard. He wanted to check the comments on that Cracked article he had written - _5 Fascinating Facts about the Sewers of New York City_ \- and see if there was anyone worth trolling. Preferably a real moron with atrocious grammar and a confederate flag icon. He was feeling a little mean tonight.

And he didn't want to think about Raphael and all his callous absence any more.

"Probably some sort of rescue fantasy-slash-need to rebel thing," he muttered absently as he scrolled the usual banality, sipping his coffee. "That seems like Raph."

"But I mean – c'mon Don, like – she has _no boobs_. At all!"

Donatello stopped. He swung his chair around to stare Michelangelo straight in the eye and leaned forward, deadly serious.

"Mikey - " his voice was measured. " - are you seriously telling me that if you had the chance to be with an _actual woman_ , who was _willing and able,_ you would give _one single fuck_ how big her boobs were?"

Michelangelo grinned, eyes sparkling by the cold cast of the monitors. "Just making sure you were really paying attention." His smile fled. "So – you think that's it? Just because she's willing?"

Donatello sighed for what felt like the thousandth time in the last half hour and pushed the keyboard away from him irritably. "No. I don't think so. But I don't really understand it either." He thought of his most difficult brother and all of his bluntness and brutal conviction. "I mean, Raphael's always been a champion of the underdog but – god, sometimes I think he's even more hardline on drugs than Leo is. And there's what she does. It doesn't bother me," he was quick to continue. "My opinion on sex work is decidedly liberal. But I don't think Raphael is as progressive on the issue as he wants us – or himself – to believe. Whatever it is between them - it's beyond my understanding." He hesitated a moment, then snorted softly. "Maybe he just wants to get away from us."

His eyes pricked and he blinked rapidly, his heart suddenly fisted. He was so over it all of a sudden. So sick of everything.

Michelangelo stared at Donatello, his eyes round and grave. "Maybe he doesn't know how to talk to us anymore either," he said quietly.

Donatello swung his chair away before his brother caught the gleam of tears under the monitor's stark light. "Yeah, well, he never even tried," he said coldly, and took a sip from his thermos. Fuck Raphael. For never being there. For never seeing just how much he was dealing with. For always being such an asshole. For finding someone to comfort him, even still. Someone real. While Donatello was stuck underground, cybering in chatrooms in between changing catheter bags.

"You know Raph's always sucked at reaching out, D," Michelangelo said behind him, his voice softly imploring.

"So what, it's all up to me? After everything he's put me through, I'm the one who has to swallow my pride and go and make it easy for him?" Donatello did not trouble himself to feign another task, just scrolled and scrolled his twitter feed, a thousand insignificant thoughts from strangers streaking down the screen. He knew none of these people. Why had he followed them at all? They couldn't help him. They couldn't care.

"That's not what I'm saying, Don. Just - just don't think he doesn't care. He cares. He cares too much to take it. He doesn't have - what you have."

For a moment Donatello simply sat with fists clenched, his teeth gritted, and heaved back the tears. He sucked in a long breath and felt his heart still.

"What have I got, Mikey?" he said, chillingly calm. "When I'm not working fulltime to support this family, or helping you manage your business, or taking care of our father - what have I got? A virtual world populated by faceless strangers I can never be fully honest with? Will never truly know? A series of shallow diversions from - from all of this - presuming I even have the energy, or the time? Is that what you mean?" His voice was starting to grow louder, his fingertips digging grooves into his palms. "And Raphael - " he laughed, and the bitter edge to it was startling, even to himself. " - what's Raphael got? Time, certainly. Plenty of that. Energy. _Lots_ of motivation. Not for us, though." He snorted, a sneer curling his lip. "No, the full capacity of our bullheaded brother's considerable willpower is devoted to _getting laid_."

He paused for a moment but Michelangelo said nothing. Donatello didn't dare look at him. Didn't want to see the way his brother was staring at him. He snorted again and when he spoke, his voice was scathing and choked:

"Seems he cares enough to go bang his junkie girlfriend, just not enough to stand by his own family."

He broke off, plastron heaving as he battled the full brutality of his broken heart. His fists lay on the desk, the computer humming quietly in the shadowed recess beneath the desk. He shut his eyes against the abrasive glow of the monitor.

Behind him, Michelangelo sniffled and sucked in a shaky breath. Donatello realised he was crying, and hated himself.

"He loves her," Michelangelo sobbed. "He wouldn't just - just - not just for that. It means something."

"It doesn't matter," Donatello's cruelty was quiet. "If it wasn't her, it'd be something else. Either way, he wouldn't be here. I know this is all more than Raphael can cope with," he added, his forehead bowed to the fingertips of one hand. "But that - that doesn't help us here. He may as well not care."

"Maybe - " Michelangelo was heaving, his voice a choked rasp. " - maybe if we all just sat down together - maybe - if we just try to talk - "

Donatello's heart twisted, painful and abrupt. "I don't have time to talk," he said coldly. He could feel Michelangelo's gaze boring into him and almost flinched. He didn't know why he'd said it. Maybe because he suspected Raphael would never agree to sit down with them. Maybe because he needed to prove he cared less.

Except the only person who heard it was the one it would hurt the most. He sighed, overwhelmed suddenly with remorse.

"Mikey - " he began gently just as Michelangelo spoke again with a trembling voice: "Look, Don - "

From the inky depths of the lair beyond the office, there came the soft grind of brick and they both turned at once, holding their breath.

Raphael was home.

In silence they sat, poised and staring at the black yawn of the doorway and Donatello's heartbeat thundered in his ears. The moments ticked past and there was no other sound. Nothing but the murmur of the machines around them. Raphael must've seen the glow that emanated from the office in the darkness, but he did not come to see them. He'd found his comfort for another night. He could go to bed and sleep away whatever of his cares remained, soothed if not content.

"I've got some work to finish before I have to check on sensei again," Donatello finally said and Michelangelo turned towards him, his blue eyes candescent and wet in the dimness. "You've got a party at midday. You better get some sleep."

His brother sniffled and wiped his eyes with the heel of his palms, shuddering sadly. "You wanna hang out when I get back? Watch a movie or something?"

"I have to work." He did not look to see the dejected stoop to Michelangelo's shoulders, just turned to his monitors, swallowing around the aching knot of his heart.

"You know I'm here for you, right?" Michelangelo's voice was tinged with a note of desperation and Donatello paused and wondered if he was supposed to feel better now.

"Thanks, Mikey," he said hollowly. It didn't change anything. "Goodnight."

He could feel his brother's sorrow as keenly as a hand on the back of his neck, but he did not turn around. Michelangelo's feet were a soft whisper against the cement as he left.

Donatello opened a new browser window, wiping at his snout with the back of a wrist. Chatzy loaded on the screen and once again he made his selection.

 **Cott0n** **Candee** **~:** _yay you came back_ 〜٩( ˃́▿˂̀ )۶〜  
 **duzmachines:** _sorry, got interrupted_  
 **Cott0n** **Candee** **~:** _haha it's ok. you wanna play?_  
 **duzmachines:** _I need to. I'm glad you're still here_  
 **Cott0n** **Candee** **~:** _awwwww of course sweetie, I'll always be here for you_ (｡ ‿ ｡)

Donatello knuckled his gritty eyes and tapped away, the stark sheen of the monitor burning away his tears, the rattle of the keyboard echoing against the empty night.


End file.
